


No Where To Go But The Fall

by flipflop_diva



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, One-Sided Relationship, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-10 12:27:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15949343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flipflop_diva/pseuds/flipflop_diva
Summary: It was supposed to just be a casual thing. Until it wasn't. At least for him.(A remix of angelsaves' No Second Guesses or Secret Signs)





	No Where To Go But The Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angelsaves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsaves/gifts).
  * Inspired by [No Second Guesses or Secret Signs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1528562) by [angelsaves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsaves/pseuds/angelsaves). 



> Written for the Remix Revival 2018 fest.
> 
> angelsaves had so many good fics to choose from, but I went with this one because I felt there was so much more potential to see what came next. Definitely read the original first. And I hope you enjoy my take on it!

He just needs to make sure.

"So that was good?"

"You're sure this was your first time?"

Steve grins. "Not my last, I hope."

"Not if I'm lucky," Natasha says. "Now if you roll over --"

•••

It becomes a habit. A way to relieve stress. For him and for her. A way to feel connected when the world around them remains entirely nonsensical. Which it does. A lot. Nothing is the same now. SHIELD is gone. Hydra is out there somewhere. Bucky is alive, and he is no closer to finding him than he was when he thought his best friend was dead.

There is no one to give orders, no one to send them off on missions. It is what he had told himself he had wanted. To walk away, to live his life, to be his own person.

It’s not that easy. He’s struggling — hard — although he doesn’t want to admit it.

She’s struggling more, although she definitely won’t admit it. Especially not to him. He gets it. He’s gotten used to getting in line, doing what people expected of him, and it has only been a few years. For her, it’s been her whole life. He knows she’s never really been given a chance to be on her own before, to be her own person. She doesn’t say any of this to him, of course, but he knows. He can see it in her eyes in the quiet moments.

So they do what they can do when they can’t fix their circumstances. They ignore it. They find something else to concentrate on. They have sex. A lot. 

And it’s fun. Amazing really. Steve can’t get enough.

He loves the taste of her on his tongue. He loves the feel of her tight around his fingers. He loves watching her eyelashes flutter and her thighs quiver, and he adores the quiet sounds she makes when she comes.

He loves being inside her even more, hearing her tiny gasps and feeling her shift against him. He knows exactly where to touch her now, knows just how hard to rub against her clit, knows exactly where to angle himself, all to make her come a second time and maybe a third.

He loves, too, the way she goes all in to return the favor. The way she strokes him, her hands gentle but strong, her mouth hot around his dick. He loves the way she’s not afraid to swallow his cum, the way she wipes her mouth when he’s done and then kisses him full on the mouth.

He wishes she would stay when they are finished. Not like she hops up right away. She usually gives him a bit of time, lets him touch her skin, wet from their activities. She laughs and she jokes and she teases him like she does when they’re sparring or cooking or watching TV. But she doesn’t stay. She doesn’t cuddle and she doesn’t spend the night and she doesn’t even accidentally fall asleep by his side, although he wishes she would.

She doesn’t let him draw her either. He desperately wants to. Wants to capture the look on her face when she thinks no one is watching. Wants to capture the way her hair naturally curls when it’s damp and a couple of strands fall over her eyes. Wants to capture how graceful she is, how strong she is despite being contained in a body that is so much smaller than him and so fragile. He’s reminded of this every time they have sex, every time his hands wrap around her waist.

He knows she can hold her own against him — she has, more than enough times — but he also knows how much he can hurt her if he really wanted to.

He shows his sketches to Sam late one night after Natasha has gone to bed. Or rather, Sam picks up his sketchbook and Steve doesn’t stop him. He watches as Sam studies page after page. Then he sets the book down and looks over at Steve, a bit of a smirk spreading over his face.

“You have it bad, don’t you?” Sam says.

Steve feels lost at what he’s referring to. “What do you mean?”

“Natasha. You have feelings for her.”

“Nah,” Steve says. “It’s casual.”

Sam raises his eyebrows at that, but he doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to. His words reverberate through Steve’s mind the rest of the night. He barely sleeps, going over it again and again.

He had been in love with Peggy once upon a time, even though nothing had ever come of it. Natasha is different. She’s a friend. She’s a teacher. She’s a confidant.

He slips out of bed somewhere around dawn and picks up his sketchbook, flips through it. Most of the pictures are of her, even though she has never officially posed for him. Pictures of her face when they are lying in bed together. Pictures of her when she’s looking out a window. Pictures of her when they’re sparring and she’s concentrating super hard.

So many pictures. So many moments. All of them he spent so much time and effort on. There’s one photo of Sam, drawn shortly after they returned from another dead-end attempt at finding Bucky. One picture of him and Bucky from before the war. A few sketches of Peggy, how she is now and how he remembers her in his mind.

But most are of Natasha.

He puts down the sketchbook and groans. How could he have missed it? More importantly, how could he have left his happen?

She comes to him the next night like she always does, dressed in jeans and a black tank top, her hair down and a little damp, makeup completely void. It’s how he best likes her — although there is never a time he doesn’t like her — fresh from the shower and just so perfect.

She smiles at him and goes to kiss him, but for the first time since they started this, he steps away, distances himself from her.

He sees it in her eyes for a split second before she covers it up, like she covers up anything that hurts her or bothers her — disappointment, confusion, hurt.

“Not tonight,” he tells her, and he doesn’t elaborate because what can he say? “I know we are supposed to be keeping this casual, but I think I’m in love with you”? She’d hate that. He knows she would. Or worse, she would pity him as she tells him she doesn’t — and won’t ever — feel the same.

“Okay,” she says, and she sounds fine, but he knows her well enough by now to know it’s not really fine, and his heart clenches, because hurting her is the last thing he wants.

He’s not sure how to tell her the truth, though. He’s not sure he can lie to her either — not without her knowing he’s lying to her and then getting the truth out. But he’s also not sure how to not go back to what they are doing.

He has to think about it more. 

She walks out, without a look back, and he picks up his sketch pad. He draws her, the last time they had sex, the way she looked underneath him, right before she came. He spends hours on it, making sure it’s perfect. 

When he’s finished, he rips it into tiny shreds and throws it away.

Sam is right. He has it bad. The problem is, he really, really doesn’t know what to do next.


End file.
